


Beelzebub's Heart and Lilith's Soul

by clearascountryair



Series: Tales of Lilith [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-08 15:48:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1946976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clearascountryair/pseuds/clearascountryair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her life was a mistake. It wasn't supposed to be like this. This was not the woman she was meant to be. She was never meant to be a demon, as he was never meant to be an angel so fallen from Grace. But there she was, lurking in the Parisian underground where, in her mind, he was a king. [Pre-barricade]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to my beta, Mel. You're the best.
> 
> This is very much the set up for my other fic (which I'll post here later this week), Lilith Reborn. You don't have to read one to read the other, but it won't hurt.
> 
> Warnings for sexual assualt, attempt rape, and domestic abuse.

_October 1828_

The boy - though he would never allowed himself to be called anything less than ‘man’ - smiled when he approached the group before him and took off his hat - though that was more for the sake of the wind than that of politeness.  The mother was sitting on the ground, braiding the younger girl's hair.  The older girl sat beside her mother, bouncing an infant on her lap as two small boys ran around her.  The father, however, was standing in front of his family, staring at the newcomer.

"Monsieur," the boy began, wasting no time.  "Your family is safely in Paris.  You were given enough bread for you and your children for a week, maybe more - you failed to mention one was still on the tit.  Three weeks have passed for you to repay your debts. You owe us." 

The man scoffed, uncaring of the underlying threat.  "How old are you, boy?"

The boy smiled, knowing, in due time, the man would learn not to ever call him "boy" again.   "I am fifteen," he responded, not bothering to give the man a title.  The time for niceties had passed.

The man nodded slowly, looking back at his family. 

"My Éponine will be thirteen next month."

The man's wife looked up for the first time, her eyes wide as she stared at her husband in disbelief. The boy looked at the older girl for the first time.  She continued to stare at the child in her lap, occasionally rubbing his arms in her hands as though that would protect him from the cool autumn wind. He laughed and turned his attention to the mother. 

"Don't worry, madame. I could never accept your husband's offer."  Smile dropping, he turned to the man before him.  "If I wanted a whore, I'd get a whore.  If your daughter ever finds herself in my bed, she will be there willingly, she will enjoy it, and her only payment will be her own contentment."  He put his hat back on his head.  "I've been instructed to tell you that this is your final warning and, rest assured, monsieur, it is."

Before leaving, he walked over to where the woman sat with her children and knelt before the girl holding the baby.   "Are you Éponine?"  When she nodded, he took her hand and pressed a coin into it.  "For your father's foolishness.  If you ever need me, ask anyone for Montparnasse. Even if it's just my name, use it as you will."

Without a backwards glance, he walked away, leaving the family behind.

It was 172 days before he next saw her. 

It was March and unseasonably cold.  With only a little hesitation, her father had given a few coins, demanding that she find a way to make the boys stop crying.  She had been absentmindedly wandering the streets when she felt someone staring at her.  A boy not so much older than she was was standing across the square.  With the relief of recognising his face, she smiled at him and, tipping his hat, he smiled back. 

And that should have been the extent of it.

But if things were always as they should, Éponine Jondrette of Paris would still be Éponine Thenardier of Montfermeil, happy, healthy, and plump in her father’s inn. Instead, she was miserable and starving, no more than a skeleton roaming the Parisian streets.  Without glancing back at the boy, Éponine continued towards the bakery, intent on buying some sweet breads for the boys and Azelma and, perhaps, if enough money was left over, for herself.

“He’ll gyp you.”

She turned and found herself face to face with a man old enough to be her father.  “I’m sorry?”

“Ain’t the place for bread. He’ll take your money and give you a stale crust.  Better places for bread.”

Éponine wrapped her arms around herself.  “Then why, monsieur, are you here?”

“Stop him from playing with ones sweet as the likes of you.  Rotten as a gypsy, I tell you.”

Éponine glanced around the square.  This had been where Maman had been taking her in the six months since their arrival in Paris. True, there was never enough to eat, not in nearly a year now, but this was the only place she knew.

“I’m just looking for a sweet for my brothers,” she murmured, glancing down at her feet.

“Good girl you are,” the man told her and held out a hand.  “Well, don’t look so shy, sweetheart.  I’m only gonna show you a cheaper place for bread.   Make sure you get your money’s worth.”

With the confidence and naivety of any thirteen year old, Éponine accepted his hand.

“There’s a good lass,” he laughed, leading her away from the bakery. 

For a few minutes, the pair walked in silence, winding down an alley, further and further from the Paris the girl knew.

“How far, monsieur?” She was getting cold and knew her father would worry about her.  Or at least he once would have.   In response, the man laughed. 

“So impatient, _ma chérie._ ”  He stopped and turned to face her.  “Now, tell me, how much do you have?”

Éponine reached into her pocket and held out her hand.

“Three sous?” He smiled and stooped to her level.  “Well, you may very well be able to get what you need and still have a bit for yourself.” He stared at her a moment longer and Éponine could have sworn the wind on the back of her neck grew magically five times colder. 

“I should go home, monsieur. It’s getting dark and my family -”

“And now you’re simply being lazy.  I thought you were getting a treat for your brothers.”

“Yes, well-”

“Then perhaps you just walk too slow.”  And, with that, he reached to grab her, this time by the wrist, and continued to pull her along. “If you would only speed up, I’ll let you get more than you bargained for.  Now, come along.”

She let out an indignant shriek and tried to pull her arm away.  “You’re hurting me!”

The man stopped and, for a moment, Éponine thought foolishly that he would release her.  But then the bitter taste of blood filled her mouth as his hand swung back across her face.  She let out another shriek, this time of pain, but was cut short as that same hand grabbed her, the taste of the man’s sweaty palm mixing with the blood of her mouth.

“I said,” he growled, squeezing her cheeks. “‘Come along.’”  And again he began dragging her through the alley.

Éponine’s breath caught in her throat as she searched her mind for words of protest.  Her eyes burned with tears unshed as she tried to dig her boots into the ground.  Had it not been only a few weeks before that her papa had pulled her and Azelma to him and told them, in that soft voice only used for them, that the city was different, that a stranger wasn’t always a friend, that not everyone knew who her papa was and would take her home to him?

She pulled back again in futile desperation and the strength of his response brought her to her knees. And yet he dragged her still. A small stone imbedded itself in her knee as he pulled her around a corner.  What little light had been left in the sky was now blocked from her view.  Tears and darkness obscuring her vision, she reached out with her free hand and dug her nails into the hand holding her.  With a low growl, the man spun around and, now clasping both her wrists in his hands, flung her backwards.  Using her now free arms, Éponine pulled herself back until she could feel the cold stone of the alley wall through her tattered bodice. She shut her eyes and brought her hands to her ears.  Perhaps if she could not see him, could not hear him, he would cease to exist.

From not too far above her head, she could hear the _coo_ of a birdsong.  _Come down here and save me_ , she prayed childishly. _I am not so heavy._

The air around her thickened and she could feel hot breath on her face.  A rough hand grabbed her leg, squeezing through the thinning fabric of her pantalettes.  She felt herself pulled down until she was lying flat on her back.  She coughed, choking on a mixture of snot and tears and, trembling, she took her hands from her ears and thrust them out in front of her.  Her assailant merely laughed and took his hand from her leg, using his arm to knock her hands away. Scarcely able to breathe, Éponine brought her hands back to her face.  If she could just make this all go away! 

Suddenly, a sound like thunder rang out, booming so loudly that, for half of a second, she wondered if the bird had indeed come to her rescue and taken her into the clouds. And then a heavy weight fell upon her, heavier than anything she had ever held, covering her from head to foot. A warm wetness began to grow between her and The Weight.  She could feel it trickling across her face, down her nose and over her lips, slipping between them with a sour, metallic taste, too familiar and too foreign all at once.  She began to scream.

“Éponine!” A pair of hands, soft and smooth and gentle, slipped between her and The Weight, grasping her and pulling at her until she slipped from the weight pinning her to the ground. She scrambled away from the hands that were holding her, immediately pulling herself to her knees, the pain meaningless as she bent over, spilling the contents of her stomach before her and panting.  For the first time in her life, she was glad for the taste of bile in her mouth. She continued heaving until the taste of a stranger’s blood no longer burned her tongue.  Even when there was nothing left, she kept retching.

“Éponine,” the voice was much softer this time, whispering her name into her ear.  She hadn’t even realised that an arm had encircled her waist from behind as the other hand held her hair tightly out of her face. She allowed the arm to turn her around, continuing to pant as her hair was released and fell in tangles upon her shoulders.

“Éponine,” he whispered again, taking off his cravat and, so slowly, so delicately, reaching forward to wipe her face.  “Éponine, do you know me?”

Scared to speak, the girl merely nodded and felt her eye fill with fresh tears.  He had given her his name to use for her safety, her protection.  And she had done worse than take his offer for granted: she had forgotten his name. Ashamed, she buried her face in her hands.

“Éponine.” She felt his hand ghost across her face, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.  There was a soft sigh and the rustling of fabric and then his coat was wrapped around her shoulders.  “Can you stand?”

In lieu of an answer, she grabbed his shoulders and began to pull herself up.  A pain shot through her legs, causing her to cry out and cling to him all the more desperately.  His arms immediately found her waist and pulled her close, steadying her.  Moving his hands from her back to her arms, he stepped back, eying her from head to toe.

“If you come with me,” he said, staring at her knees.  “I know someone who may be able to help you.”

Éponine looked down. Her entire front was soaked in blood.  What was hers, she couldn’t say.  But she could feel it still slowly dripping down her legs.  She glanced back at the boy.  He was looking at her with kindness she had not seen since before she came to Paris.  _But friendliness isn’t always goodness_ , she reminded herself.   She coughed into her elbow before speaking.

“I should go home. My papa will be worrying.”

“And your maman would die the second she saw you.  White as a ghost, painted red, and, take my word for it, lips blue as ice. Why, if I let you walk all the way home, wherever that may be, your brothers would mistake you for the Tricolour.”

Éponine said nothing, simply wrapping her arms tighter around herself, causing his hands to slip to her elbows.  Were he not certain that she would fall if left to her own balancing, he would have released her immediately and retreat with outstretched hands.

“Are you scared of me, ‘Ponine?”  He was answered with silence.  “Don’t fear me. I’d never hurt you.”

“You have a gun.”

“But not for you! I’d never hurt a girl, Éponine.   Some people deserve to hurt.”  With a glance at the corpse still staining the pavement, he took a breath and pulled her closer to him.  “Some people deserve to die.  But not you. Now, please, let me get you home. You’ll never make it on your own.”

He was right, she knew it. With a gulp and a nod, she wrapped her arms around his neck and allowed him to lift her up.  For the whole of their journey, she pressed her face into his chest, not daring to look at where he was taking her. After what could have been five minutes or an hour, she felt one hand slip from her and let out a gasp.

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you.” And then the wind was gone and both his arms were clutching her as he ascended the stairs at a surprising speed, kicking the door hard when they reached the top.

“And there he is,” a voice growled.  “Where in the bloody hell - _fucking Christ, Montparnasse! The fuck did you do?_ ”

“She - she was alone.   She was l-looking for the b-baker.”  Several pairs of heavy footsteps approached the pair and Éponine buried her face even deeper into the boy - into Montparnasse’s chest.

“And you thought you’d take her as your own?” Another voice growled.  “And bring her here?  HAVE I TAUGHT YOU NOTHING?”

“I DIDN’T HURT HER!” Montparnasse roared, causing Éponine to shriek in his arms.  Immediately, she felt herself lowered to the ground, cradled in Montparnasse’s lap.   “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he whispered, holding her close.  “You’re safe here, I promise.  Babet, please?”

“Tell me what happened.”

“I saw her walking earlier, but thought nothing of it.  But then she wasn’t in front of the bake-”

“Not you.  _Her_.”

Éponine bit her lip and slowly pulled her head from Montparnasse.  And man she assumed was Babet knelt before her, gaunt with wisps of grey hair tucked into a cap.  His eyes were silver and studied her with such scrutiny that she began to cry the moment she opened her mouth.

“Please, monsieur. I just want to go home. My papa will be so worried.”

“Don’t cry, _petite_.  It’s never solved any problems.  Now, who’s your papa?”

Éponine sniffed and stared at him, saying nothing.  She was in a room of strangers, men she had never met before so much as seen.  She had only just gotten used to Jondrette, she’d hate to force her family to change again so soon.

“She’s the Jondrette girl,” Montparnasse said, as though her family was the most popular in Paris. “Éponine.”

“The oldest?”

Both Éponine and Montparnasse nodded.

“Claquesous said his oldest was more or less a woman grown.”

Montparnasse squeezed her shoulder comfortingly.  “Less, then. She’s thirteen.”

Éponine turned to him in astonishment.  How did he remember such a silly thing as her age?

“Hmmph.  Very well, then.  Go get Jondrette.”

“Babet-”

“For all the faults you and Claquesous have named in him, he is still the child’s father. Go.  Now.”

She could feel Montparnasse nod against her head.  “I’ll be back,” he told her, lifting her easily and bringing her to the table. “And I’ll bring your papa.”

And then he was gone. She sat there in silence, still wrapped in his coat.

“If you want me to help you, you’ve got to get rid of those pantalettes.”

Éponine’s blood ran cold as she stared up at him with wide eyes.  “P-please, monsieur.  I just want my papa.”

Babet looked at her in confusion, but, as Éponine pulled her knees to her chest, gritting her teeth at the pain, he let out a bark of laughter that sounded as though it came more from rage than amusement.  He sat down beside her and cupped her chin in his hands.  The girl released a choked sob.

“You’re thirteen,” he told her, as if she herself were unaware.  “Jesus Christ, you’re no more than a babe.”   He released her chin and stood up, walking across the room to retrieve a tattered black bag.  “You’ve got a lot of blood on you, girlie.  Your papa won’t be able to buy you a doctor if you get an infection.  Come, now. No one will hurt you here. Never hurt a woman. It’s you lot that are the strong ones, truly.”

Éponine tried to consent to an examination.  She wanted to, truly.  But the moment she opened her mouth, she found herself sobbing once more.  She had left her parents barely an hour before and had already forgotten what it felt like to be safe.  She sat there on the table, feeling Babet’s eyes on her, but her sobs continued.  She cried until no more sound came out, no more tears.  She was sure she was about to be sick again when the sound of heavy footsteps bounding up the stairs graced her ears, combined with the deep shouting of her name.

“Papa!” she shrieked, pushing herself off the table only to land in a heap on the floor. But the pain couldn’t bother her anymore.  Montparnasse had been true!  He had found her papa - no easy task, she was sure - and brought him to her.  With her papa there beside her, she was safe. “Papa!”

And then his arms were around her and, for what may have been the first time since their arrival in Paris, her father was holding her tight and peppering her face and hair with gentle kisses.

“See, Éponine?” she was vaguely aware of Montparnasse asking, breathless from his mission to find Jondrette.  “I told you: you’re safe with us.”

 

For the next several weeks, he took her around the city.  Not the city of artists and students and adventurers, but the city of the urchins, the city of rats and criminals.

“In their Paris,” he explained to her.  “Grown men fight to show off how much money they’ve got, how many books they’ve read. They fight to let others think that they care.  But in our Paris, all people, grown and little, fight.  And we don’t do it to show off.  We do it to survive.  I personally find our Paris more fun.  What’s a game without high stakes, what’s a life without risks?”

For weeks she followed him, studying the way he slipped between shadows, the way he made people want to help him.  She studied the way he made people laugh and the way he made them cower in fear.

But, as the months went by, their time together spread thinner over the days.  Days would pass without a word between them. But still, every Tuesday morning, she’d find him in front of the bakery, fresh bread in hand.

On the eve of his seventeenth birthday, they sat together eating a sweet that she was sure had not been in his pocket when she had met him this morning.

“I shan’t see you next week.” She didn’t even look him in the eye as she spoke.

“Oh?”

She nodded. “Papa has some letters that must be delivered.”

“Do it Wednesday, then. Or Monday evening.”

“Papa says the recipients must be home.”

“I’ll join you.”

Éponine laughed and shook her head.  Smiling, she looked at her lap and let her fingers trace the holes of her skirt.  They grew larger each day.  She was sure Montparnasse had noticed by now, but was just as sure that he was too kind to say anything.

“What’s wrong, ‘Ponine?”

Éponine looked up in surprise. “Why should you think anything was wrong?”

“You always become more self-conscious when you’re nervous.”

She sighed. “We’re asking them for money, ‘Parnasse.  There’s barely enough left to feed one, let alone seven.  If you’re with us, we’ll look like a con.  If it’s just me and Azelma...well, someone’s bound to take pity on us.”

For a long while, they sat in silence.  Both were fully aware of the Jondrette’s finances and both knew full well of the other’s awareness. But there was never any talk of it, never any pity.

“I suppose I’ll have to find something else to occupy my time, then.”

“I could send Gavroche. Oh, you’d like him!”

“Gavroche?” He looked at her, perplexed.  As far as he knew, the men of Patron-Minette were the only ones in Éponine’s life.

She nodded excitedly. “My brother.  He’s eight, but he’s awfully clever.”

Montparnasse smiled, praying his relief didn’t come through.  “I didn’t even know his name.”

Éponine shrugged. “Yeah, well, he came home last week - hadn’t seen him for days, I was so worried - and told us his name was Gavroche.”

“What was it before that?”

Éponine shrugged again. “I always called him ‘little one.’”

“And the babies?”

“‘Sweet one’ and ‘baby.’”

With a laugh, he pushed a piece of hair from her face.  “Some days, my Éponine, I’m quite glad that you seem like you may not be your parents’ daughter at all.”

Before she could retort, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her lips. 

She blushed.


	2. A Conclusion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for reading this! Tomorrow, I'll start posting the main story, Lilith Reborn.  
> Special thanks to Mel, the best beta ever.
> 
> Warning: domestic abuse

_July 1830_

 

It was a Tuesday when she slipped, unannounced, into his room.  He was perched on the windowsill, trying to use the last rays of sunlight to mend the seam of his jacket.  When, for the upteenth time, the needle met with his finger rather than the cloth, he let out a yell of frustration and tossed the jacket to the floor.

“Well, the floor won’t sew it very well.”  He spun around and found her sitting on his bed, hugging a ratty pillow to her chest.

“How’d you get in here?”

“Picked the lock. I have a good teacher, you know. A little ugly and a bit rude, but I’ve still learnt all my lessons.”

Montparnasse laughed, picking up the jacket and tossing it to her.  “Thank me for it then.  I got the sleeve caught.”

Éponine rolled her eyes and threw it back, laughing as it hit him full on in the face.  “What?  Because I have breasts, I can sew better than you can?”

He shrugged and eyed her up and down.  “What breasts?”

Letting out an indignant gasp, Éponine lunged at him, jumping off the bed and throwing her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist 

“I hate you,” she whispered into his neck, clinging to him as he walked across the room.

Montparnasse scoffed and kissed her on the nose before dropping her unceremoniously onto the bed.

“Liar,” he murmured, crawling beside her and pulling her closer.

“‘Parnasse,” she asked, pressing her face into his chest.  “‘Parnasse, do you love me?”

Montparnasse closed his eyes and buried his face into her hair, breathing in that sweet mixture of dirt and sweat and that scent so distinctly Éponine.  He rolled onto his back, pulling her with him so he could stare up at her.  Had he a franc to his name, he would have left Paris with her, right then and there. Taken her some place new and clean.  But that was never an option, would never be an option.

“You’re here, aren’t you?” He smiled as her hair fell over his face.  “And what of you, my mademoiselle?  Can you tell this wretched soul that he’s loved?”

Éponine sucked her lower lip into her mouth, as if she were thinking deeply on the notion. “I shall have to wait and see, I suppose.” 

She made as if to roll off of him, shrieking joyfully as he began furiously tickling her sides.

“I’m yours! I’m yours,” she laughed, collapsing on top of him.  For a long while, they remained that way, lying together with his hands languidly stroking her hair, slipping further and further down her back with each stroke.

“Éponine?”

“Mmmhph?”

“Not today, but one day, we’re going to leave all this.”  He felt her shrug against him.

“I don’t know. Your bed is much warmer than my own.”

“I’m being serious, ‘Ponine. We could leave Paris. You and me.”

Éponine snorted, but nonetheless pressed her face into his neck.  “I only just got off the streets, ‘Parnasse.  I've a roof and my family - why be anywhere but Paris?”

Montparnasse kissed her and brushed her hair out of her face.  "Oh, my sweet 'Ponine.  I promise you, with everything I have and everything I am, that you will never go back to the streets, that you will always have your family and that, as soon as I have the means, you will never be cold nor hungry."

Éponine laughed and rolled off of him, falling on her back beside him.  With a quiet sigh, she reached for his hand.  "Do you want me, 'Parnasse?"

He hesitated for a moment before responding.  "I love you."

"I know." She squeezed his hand and dropped her voice.  "But do you _want_ me?"

"We could have a little cottage, you and I.  Out in the country.  We could bring 'Zelma and the boys too.  Live happy and rich.  Never be hungry."

Rolling her eyes, Éponine brought his hand to her mouth and kissed it softly.  "When you lie awake at night," she whispered, kissing the tip of each finger, "when it's only you and the wind, do you think about me?"

She heard him suck in his breath in response, but otherwise, he was silent.

"I think of you sometimes, you know.  More than sometimes. When I can't sleep at night, I just walk around.  Now that we've got a proper place, I've got to sneak away.  And I just walk around the city.  Paris is so lovely at night.  It's like something from a storybook!  And oh, I just imagine your arms around me. It's so warm in your arms, Montparnasse.  It's where I ought to be."

"'Ponine," he warned and she smiled at how strained his voice was.

"I want you. Desperately.  I feel loved when I'm with you.  Please."

"You're a child."

"I'm a woman. I'm your woman."

It wasn't much later than usual when she returned to her family's new home - if you could call it that - that night.  There was near silence as she slipped through the door.  Yes, the room was silent save for the wind outside, the fresh fall of rain she had only just missed, and the quiet whimpers of her youngest brother. Poor dear, he had nightmares so often.  But before she could even make it to the small mattress in the corner, the whimpers stopped and Éponine paused.  It was too quiet. She couldn't remember the last time she had fallen asleep to only the sound of the wind.

"Let's take a walk."

Éponine spun around. "You're still awake."

Her father smiled, but it stretched no further than his mouth.  His eyes still wandered over his oldest child, as though daring her to lie about her whereabouts.

"I thought a walk before bed would be pleasant.  Surely you wouldn't deny your dear old Papa the presence of your company."

Éponine sucked in a deep breath.  "But it's raining."

Jondrette laughed and leaned against the door frame.  "You know, Ponina, when you were a little thing, small enough to sit on my shoulders, you loved the rain.  You could dance in the mud for hours.  Maman hated it.  She always told you that you'd catch a cold and die, but you would just laugh and say 'but it's the rain, Maman.  It loves me.'"

She bit her lip, but still reached out for her father's arm.  Silently, the pair walked down the stairs and out of the building. To her surprise, her father quickly removed his tattered coat and draped  it over her shoulders. 

"It's summer, Papa. I don't need a coat."

"I don't want your clothes getting wet," was the gruff response, and then there was silence. They walked together through the rain, watching the street light flicker in the puddles.  Suddenly her father stopped and released her arm.

"Papa?"

Jondrette sighed and stared up at where a sliver of moonshine peered through the clouds. "How old are you now, Epponina?"

"Fifteen."

Her father snorted. "And such a liar so young? You're not yet fifteen for nearly five months more.  November the eighteenth, eighteen fifteen.  I was there, 'Ponina, I remember.  You were a tiny thing, tinier than any of the rest of them were.  I could hold you in one hand." He sighed again and turned to look over the river, never so much as glancing at his daughter.  "So, my little girl, where were you tonight?"

Éponine looked down and felt her cheeks burn.  She thanked God for the cover of darkness - even if her father had his back to her. "I was walking, Papa. Thinking."

Jondrette spun around and grabbed her arm.  "Don't lie to me, Éponine.  Do not lie to me. I will always know. Every false word you say, every sneaky look in those eyes.  I live by finding liars.  So you will not lie to me again.  Is that clear?"

Éponine nodded.

"Good." He released her arm to drape his own over her shoulders.  "So, he decided to make a woman of you, did he?"

Éponine let out a small laugh and shook her head.  "I don't need making to be a woman, Papa.  I'm one all on my own."

Again, her father snorted, releasing her and walking to look over the side of the bridge. "You know what I mean, Éponine."

It was Éponine's turn to snort.  "It's not the women you should all be so worried about, you know.  We do just find on our own."  She blushed again, perhaps more furiously than before, and walked to look over the bridge beside her father.  "I suppose, though, if anything, I've made him a man."

Thenardier laughed. A true and honest, straight from the belly laugh.  One that she hadn't heard since before any of the boys were born.  Her eyes immediately began to burn. "Oh, my Éponine. My sweetest Epponina. You truly are a clever little woman, aren't you?"  He laughed again, still watching the reflection of the sky in the rippling river. "I think he's good for you, Montparnasse.  True, his life is an ugly one, but if anyone can fight his way out of this world, it'll be him. And if he takes you with him, even if that means away from me, I think I should be very glad indeed. I was going to spoil you rotten, you know?  You're a brat anyway, but I'd have wanted you to be a brat who has everything, rather than one who's lost it all.  Oh, ‘Ponina!" He had finally turned to face his daughter, only to find her staring over the river, her entire body trembling as tears poured endlessly down her face.  "Don't cry, Éponine.  Don't you dare.  Hey!" He grabbed her chin and turned her head to face him.  "We do not cry.  When we cry, it means that hope is gone.  It means that life can only get worse.  But look at you!  You spent two years under a bridge.  A bridge! And now what?  You spend your nights on a lousy mattress with your sister and three brothers!  Life can only get better for you, ‘Ponina.  So don't cry."

"We're going to die like this, aren't we, Papa?  We must, because why else would he do this to us?"

Once more, her father grabbed her arm.  "Who did what to us?  Did he hurt you? Because if he did a thing you didn't ask for, I will slit his throat and bleed him dry."

Éponine sniffed and shook her head, wiping her nose on the sleeve of the borrowed coat.  "Remember when me and 'Zelma were little and you used to tell us the stories of Ruth and Miriam and the people in the desert?"

Jondrette scoffed. "That him? Let me tell you a secret, my darling Éponine:  God is dead. There's no one up there trying to help you anymore than there's someone trying to damn you.  The only heaven and hell are those on this earth. No one will fight for you, so don't be some silly thing who sits around and waits for _God_ to make your life happier.  The only person who's going to save you is yourself. Not me, not Maman."

"And 'Parnasse? You said he was going to be the one to get out of this."

Jondrette shook his head. "He'll get himself out, but you have to make sure you're out of here with him.  Nobody's gonna hold your hand and drag you along. You have to fight. You know the phrase 'dog eat dog?' Well, that's how it is.  We do what we can to get by.  You need money to live in this world and sometimes other people have to go down for us to go up."  He paused and looked away from her.  "Sometimes people have to get hurt and you just have to live with it because you can only care about you."

Éponine blinked and stared at the back of his head, her breath catching in her throat.  "You're working with them, aren't you? Patron-Minette. You're one of them now." 

"Don't sound so terrorised, girly.  What of your precious Montparnasse?  Why, he might be the worst of their lot."

"You should know better."

"Better? I should know better? And what do you know, Éponine? What is this world to you? You dart around Paris all day, lost in some fantasy world.  What are you, girl?  Are you a child or are you a woman?  Do you want to keep dancing around the city like nothing can harm you?  Is it you who lives so care-freely? Or is it you who must tell the landlord come morning that we can't pay this month's rent or last's? I'm working with them, Éponine, to keep a roof above your pretty little head."

Éponine pulled the coat around herself, suddenly freezing despite the warmth of the July night. She knew life had gotten worse for them, she knew they fell further and further into poverty with each passing day.  But had it truly been two months since they had had enough to pay rent for that tiny little room, a room far too small for a family of seven.

"I can help," she whispered.  "Azelma, too. The boys are little, we can't ask much of them, but I can help you.  We'll get the money, Papa.  I promise. Just tell me what you need of me and I'll do it."

Jondrette sighed a brushed a strand of hair from his daughter's face.  "Just be brave, 'Ponina.  Take care of yourself and the others when you must. Just be brave, be smart, and be strong.  I could never ask any more of you."

*            *            *

_October 1830_

 

It was too early for snow, but she didn't care.  She was shoeless now, she had been since August, but it didn't bother her.  Below her feet, a frozen puddle shattered, sending shards of ice into her foot and soaking her skirt with the freezing water below. But she kept running. She ran and ran until she was where she needed to be, bursting through the door and running up the stairs, grabbing the bannister with raw hands to keep herself upright.  She no longer owned any hairpins - metal of any sort was too valuable elsewhere - so she threw her weight full force into the door at the top

"I know you're home!" she shrieked, throwing her fists again and again against the wood. "Let me in! Let me in right now or, I swear it, I'll never come back!"

The door swung open and she saw Montparnasse's face pale he second he looked at her.  Immediately, he grabbed her by her arms and pulled her into the apartment, leading her towards his bed.

"'Ponine," he whispered, rubbing one thumb over her cheek.  "Breathe, 'Ponine.  I'm here.  Just breathe." He wrapped his arms around her, burying her face in his chest.  "It's okay, 'Ponine, everything's going to be okay."

For a quarter of an hour he sat there, rubbing small circles into her back and covering the top of her head with feather-light kisses.  Finally, the girl's breathing slowed enough for her to speak.

"They sold them, 'Parnasse," she whispered into his chest.

He took a deep breath, pressing his nose into her hair.  "Who, darling?  Who sold who?"

"My parents. They sold the babies." And she once more dissolved into hysterical sobs.

He kissed her head, pulling her closer and closer until he was lying down, his precious Éponine curled up into his chest.

"Why," was all he managed to say.

Éponine sniffed and nuzzled against him, thankful for any comfort he had to give her.  "They said we're out of money. Out of everything. They said we had to - we're getting ten francs a month.  Ten francs! For two boys!  I'll never see them again.  They're not Thenardiers anymore, they're not even Jondrettes.  And baby - he has nightmares every night.  He needs me there with him!"

Montparnasse rubbed her back, slipping his hand beneath her chemise.  Her back was so cold, he noticed, perhaps his hands could warm her.

"It's okay," he whispered absentmindedly.  "Magnon will take good care of them.  She's a good mother."

Éponine nodded into his chest, but then froze.  He didn't notice. She was there, pressed up against him, needing him, possibly even wanting him.  And that was all he needed.  He reached for her chin, ready to pulled her face to his and kiss away all her grief, all of her fear.  But before his fingers could catch her, she let out a shriek and pushed herself away from him with such force that she went tumbling to the ground.

"Éponine!"

She just shook her head, backing away from him muttering words he couldn’t make out under her breath. Her hair fell in thick, sweaty locks around her face, giving her the look of a mad woman.  And, in her hysterical state, perhaps she was.

"Éponine," he said, sliding off the bed.  She only shook her head.  "Éponine, tell me what's wrong."

"I never said who they sold them to."

But Montparnasse still couldn't hear her.

"Sweet 'Ponine-"

"NO!"

"Éponine! What's wrong? Tell me what's wrong!"

"I NEVER SAID IT WAS MAGNON!" She grabbed the footboard of his bed, desperate for support.

Montparnasse froze. She was never meant to know. That had been his deal with Jondrette and his wife.  He could get them money, steady money, but Éponine could never know.

"Ep-"

"You knew! You know they were taking them away. That they were selling them!  And you let them!"

"Éponine!"

"No!  You're supposed to love me.  To trust me!  I'm supposed to trust you.  Those are my brothers!  They're practically babies!  They need me!"

"Her children died, Éponine!"  He roared, approaching her faster than he meant to, his face contorting to anger rather than to show guilt or regret.  "They died!  She was their mother and she lost them.  She lost her only sons.  And you know what, 'Ponine?  She got eighty francs a month for them.  Eighty! She needs them! She needs them and, quite frankly, they need her.  She'll feed them, she'll clothe them.  It's not your concern."

Éponine froze, staring at him with red, unblinking eyes.

And then she ran. She ran from that apartment faster than she had run to it.  She ran and ran and ignored the shrieks of her name following her down the stairs. With a cry of pure anguish, she slammed her hands over ears.

Before she knew it, she was sitting in the snow, right in the middle of the street.  She couldn't find it within herself to care. She brought her knees to her chest and simply stared ahead.  She could still hear the echo of her name some ways away.  But she was far now, quite far indeed. She didn't need him anymore. She wasn't his to need.

Avoiding him at first was hard.  She learned to balance on the roof outside their small window, how to leave the room unseen. And still on the street she would hear her own name called and would have to quickly disappear into the shadows. She once found herself sitting on a ledge above the Seine, watching the water crashing below her. It would be so easy to just let the wind blow her over the side and down, down, down.  But it was a long winter that year and the idea of the cold water frightened her terribly.  Still, she took part in her father's schemes, dragging Azelma with her when she could.  But avoiding Montparnasse was always her priority.

It was a Monday, long after the snow had gone, when she finally found her distraction, her saviour and her light.

He had allowed her into his room without so much as a sneer at her ratty skirt and oversize chemise. She had entered his room with the title of "mademoiselle" and exited with five francs in her hand - five francs that had been given to her out of nothing but kindness. And all by her beautiful, sweet neighbour.  For weeks, she had watched him from afar, all but gliding up and down the stairs. Oh, how lovely he looked! As far as she was concerned, he must have been a king.  When she looked at him, she knew it wouldn't matter if she ever forgave 'Parnasse, she'd never allow herself to his bed again.  No, this boy was her love, her everything.  She'd be his one day, she was sure of it.

_Éponine, la Baronne Pontmercy._

Yes, she'd be a good wife for him.

"If I married monsieur le baron," she asked her father one night, as Maman and Azelma slept curled on the small mattress (for Gavroche had long since decided he'd fare better on his own, without his mother demanding that the poor girls needed more than he did).  "If I became a baronne, would you still love me?"

Jondrette laughed, a sound she knew only she could get from him.  "It depends, 'Ponina.  Would you buy your poor Maman a house with a bed?"

"I'd buy her half of France if I could."

Her father laughed again, but this time she knew it wrong.  "Papa?"

"I've conned people my whole life.  Everything I gave you, everything I gave your sister.  I never pretended to deal in clean money."

Éponine put her chin on his shoulder.  "I know, Papa. You take care of us."

"I fear I'm becoming a man I never should have been."

"You're still my papa. That's all I need of you, truly."

Her father laughed again. A cold and sinister laugh that made her throat burn of bile.

"I don't even know of that anymore.  You father? Yes.  Until I die, I shall always be your father. My poor, sweet Epponina. But what kind of papa does to his children what I've done to mine?  I never loved my sons, I never even pretended to.  And even now, I find myself wondering if it would just be easier to rid myself of my daughters as well.  Were I to send you to some brothel somewhere, at least I would not have to watch you starve."

Éponine dropped to her knees before him, taking his hands in her own and kissing them.

"You mustn't be so quick to give up, Papa," she whispered into his hands.

"It's been a long time coming, my love."

She put her head on his knee, determined not to break her vow to never cry in front of him again.

"Since when do Thenardiers give up?"

His hand was cold as he ran it through her hair.

"But you see," he said, his voice nearly obscured by the wind.  "I'm not even that anymore."

"Even what?" she asked, though she knew the answer.

"Even me."

*            *            *

_June 1832_

 

Tears had sprung into her eyes the moment the men left her, but she had refused to let them fall. He threatened to kill her! Her 'Parnasse had threatened to slit her throat.  Oh, but she would have deserved it!  How could she have been so selfish, so absolutely foolish?  She knew all of those men and knew just how dangerous every one of them was.  And she knew that her livelihood, and her family's, depended on the generosity of these men. Just as long as her father did what was asked of him, things would be alright.

And she had laughed at them all.  She had frightened them away from a job, a good job, and had made fools of grown men. She had mocked their maleness, threatened to have them all arrested - even her own father, and so soon after he had gotten out.  And he had called her a 'bitch.' Her own father!  Her loving, most dear Papa; her father who comforted her when all hope seemed lost.  He'd called her 'bitch.'

And Montparnasse had threatened to take care of her.  To slit her throat.  To put her out of the way.

"Liar," she had begun to whisper as soon as they left.  "Liar, liar, liar!"  He would never lay a finger on her unless she begged it of him. No knife of his would trace her throat!

Once she was sure all was clear, she had left the house on Rue Plumet.  She would not stand around and watch yet another reminder of how unloved she was.

_He would never hurt her._   He was the one who saved her, time and time again.  Holding her torn skirt off the ground she ran to his apartment, that room that she could always make warm enough. She would wait for him there. Perhaps he'd be too happy to be angry with her - it had been so long since she had come to him. She hadn't shared his bed, hadn't so much as looked at him since she had met Monsieur Marius. She missed him, that was true. Some nights she would walk the street, imagining Marius holding her as Montparnasse did, kissing her as Montparnasse did.  That was the truest bliss she knew.

But now was not the time for Marius.  No, this was about her.  _Never again_ , she had promised herself.  But never was, so it seemed, not as far off as she thought.

She was able to slip a pin from a drunk woman's hair and, fifteen minutes later, found herself in Montparnasse’s apartment, sitting comfortably on his bed, waiting for him to return. When he did, he simply stared for several long minutes.  Then, with a growl, he charged at her.  But she was prepared for him.  Throwing her arms to the sides, she embraced him and his lunge ended with hot kisses on her neck and pulling at her chemise.

"You stupid girl!" He growled, masking the sound of tearing fabric.  "How could you be so fucking stupid?"

But Éponine didn't care. She just pulled him close, whimpering under his touch.  It had been so long since he had had her.  She was so desperate.

There was nothing slow, nothing sweet about it as there had been at their previous encounters. Just groans of anger and of want. She wrapped her arms and legs around him, clutching at him as though she would never let him go. And, when she reached her peak, she saw only white and could only manage a soft, desperate sigh.

" _Marius._ "

Immediately, he was off her. She tried to focus her eyes, but all she could see was a sweaty red face and all she could feel was the heat of his hand at her neck.

"What did you say?"

She tried to reach for his arm, pulled his fingers off of her neck, but all too quickly had he grabbed her wrist with his free hand.

"What did you SAY?"

"I didn't say anything!"  It scared her how much her voice squeaked.

He released her throat. "Liar!" He bellowed, his hand coming down hot and hard against her face.  "You evil, wicked, lying whore!"

"Montparnasse-"

"And now you say it! You bitch!" His eyes were red and, at the sight of them, she couldn't breathe. Panting - for that was better than crying - he climbed from the bed.  She stared at the ceiling, trembling in terror and confusion, and listened to the sound of Montparnasse moving around the room.  And suddenly he was on top of her again, now fully clothed. He brought his face close to hers, his breath hot and uneven against her face.

"You could have been mine," he growled, sending sharp chills down her spine. "I could have loved you. I _did_ love you.  I was going to take you out of here, I was going take you away.  I was supposed to take care of you, 'Ponine. Because I saw you. I see you.  And he doesn't.  He won't.  You can't just sit around waiting for him to see you.  You can't just love him.  _He_ doesn't deserve you." He was openly crying now. “He is not yours. You are not his! Don’t you get that? Does that register in that silly little head of yours?  Where would you be, Éponine, if you were not mine?  Dead.  Bleeding and dead and ravaged in the gutter?”  Taking a deep breath, he pressed his lips to her ear.  “Should I have left you there, Éponine? Should I have let you been his?”

“Montparnasse, please! You’re scaring me!”

“GOOD,” he roared, still pinning her down.  “You should be scared.  Do you have any fucking idea who I am, what I’ve done?  What I’ve done _for you_? God, you fucking bitch.  You horrible, fucking cunt.”  His face was buried in her neck now and she could feel the way his body shook with the sobs he was trying so hard to hide.

“I’m yours,” she whispered, her voice sounding younger than it had sounded in years and more terrified than any she had ever heard.  “I’m yours and you’re mine,” she told him, running a shaking hand through his hair.

But then his hand was back on her neck, tightening under her chin.  She could do nothing but kick her legs madly and pray for the air to scream.

“You’re a whore, Éponine,” he hissed, pressing their foreheads back together.  She shut her eyes, hoping that the terror would just vanish.  “That’s all you will ever, ever be.  And the next time someone takes you, the next time you call out some bourgeois boy’s name, he’ll be paying you to say it.  And you’ll hate him.” 

In that instant, he was off of her, but her eyes still remained shut.  Once more she could hear him moving around the room. She held in a gasp at the pain of small pieces of cold metal slamming into her chest.

“I’ve paid my debts, _whore_ , and then some. If you ever dare show me your face again, I’ll make sure your own mother can’t recognise you.”

It was not until several minutes after the door slammed that Éponine finally opened her eyes. Still shaking, she pushed herself until she was sitting up.  She was alone in the room, freezing and naked in his bed, surrounded by whatever spare change Montparnasse had had on him.  Wrapping her arms around her chest, she began to wail. She screamed in terror, in anger, she even screamed her mourning.  She had nothing now.  Maman was in jail.  Only God knew where Azelma was, Gavroche as well.  The babies could be anywhere - she had gone to Magnon’s after the arrest to find the apartment empty.  They probably wouldn’t even recognise her.  And Papa - her wonderful loving Papa who had given everything for her -

She would be dead to him by now.  He was probably hoping she was.

Her only source of joy had left her.  The hands which had once provided her with a safety previously unknown had found their way to her neck and had all but stopped her life.  There was nothing now.  No happiness, no safety.  Only herself.  She let out a final choked sobbed and could hear on her breath a name that had been only moments ago scared out of her.

Of course!

For no matter how hard her life would become, no matter what anyone said to her, she would always have Marius.

Éponine closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, and counted to ten.  _I have no bird_ , she told herself _, nothing with wings to fly me from here.  But I have legs._

She would escape this life yet.  She was destined to be a baronne, not a whore. 

“I am a Thenardier,” she said in a whisper, speaking to the air around her.  “You don’t throw me away.”

She sniffed and wiped her nose on her bare arm.  “I’m not your whore!” she shrieked into the empty room.  “I’m not a whore, I’m not a whore,” she murmured, again and again. Words still falling from her lips, she slipped from the bed and picked her chemise off the floor. It was torn now beyond wearability.  Pressing her palms into her eyes, she sank down, rocking back and forth on her heels.

_This shall be an odd memory_ , she assured herself, _once I am a fat and rich baronne_.  At once, she began laughing to herself, a mad laugh, almost maniacal once it was woven with sobs.  Fancy that - the baronne Pontmercy squatting naked on the floor, with only coins and a ripped shirt for comfort.

It was several minutes before she had gained control of herself.  When she did, she calmly stood up and folded both the ripped chemise and her skirt.  Red-eyed, she walked to the old wardrobe in the corner and opened it.  It was mostly empty.  A few nice jackets Montparnasse had probably stolen (“Why can’t a crook look a dandy?”) and, down at the bottom, a tattered pair of trousers and a yellowed striped shirt - cruel reminders of what the dandy was beneath his fine coat.  She ran her fingers along the fraying material.

“You’re not so different from me,” she told him, though he was not there to hear.  “I think, perhaps, I could have been you, were I a boy. And if you were a girl…” she dropped her voice, scared even the wind would hear her.  “Were you a girl, I think you’d be more a whore than I.”

A chill ran down her spine. It was true, they were not so different.  And, yet, people spat in her face while they cowered at the sight of him.  She glanced at the wardrobe’s contents again.

“When I am a baronne, no one, I think, shall spit on me.”

With that, she slipped into those old, tattered trousers and that frayed and yellowed shirt. Despite the early June heat, the linen was cold against her skin.  Finding an old hat, she stuffed her hair into it, hidden away.

She would find her Marius, she decided.  And, for her bravery, they would love each other always.


End file.
